the relationship as a mirror

I’ve long believed that relationships are our mirrors into ourselves, bringing out the best and the worst, but always the potential within us. There are few people I’ve ever truly disliked, yet I’ve had the wisdom to ask what it is about them that I don’t like in myself. The answer wasn’t and isn’t always clear.

When tension began to grow in my marriage, I looked first within myself to see how I was creating and affecting and directing the relationship. I changed many of my own thoughts and behaviors, using the opportunity to grow. I stopped reading into and interpreting my husband’s behavior in ways that were harmful to me. His behavior had nothing to do with me — I could accept it or like it or neither. Perhaps my fault in this was that I was so busy taking on the task of growing myself that I forgot to pause and communicate that I wasn’t willing to accept the impact of certain of these behaviors on me or my (our) family.

Meanwhile, as I’ve begun to more actively focus on healing myself after the split, I’ve enlisted the help of Debbie Ford‘s wise Spiritual Divorce. In following the exercises at the end of one of her chapters, I listed all the qualities in my ex that I disliked or hated. There were really only a few, but they were kind of big buckets. Then I contemplated the judgments I made about those characteristics and, finally, I mused about how those very qualities exist within me. I was surprised at how easy this was…until I was lying in bed that night: suddenly, I thought of approximately a dozen additional character flaws that I positively hated about my ex!

I made a mental note to revisit these qualities in the next couple of days and to follow through on the exercise of searching within my own psyche for how these characteristics manifest within my own behaviors. I have yet to follow through. These must be the sticky ones…

do you have romantic regrets?

A recent NY Times article cited a study about regrets, saying 44 percent of females had a romantic regret…

I suspect there are many of us who occasionally think about the one that got away, the friend to whom we never confessed our true feelings, the relationship we unintentionally sabotaged, simply because we didn’t know any better…

Most of us who have gone through a divorce or major break-up have probably thought more than one of these regretful thoughts:

Why didn’t I settle for the guy / girl before him / her?
Why didn’t I leave sooner?
Why didn’t I work harder?
Why didn’t I see his / her true nature before we got married?
Why doesn’t he / she want me anymore?
Why wasn’t I enough?

None of these are productive questions. As I’ve said before, even if these kinds of questions were answerable, the answer(s) would never be satisfactory. If there were easy answers, I’m hopeful that we’re all smart enough to find them unacceptable. What could possibly explain away the upheaval, decimated self-esteem, cock-eyed financial shenanigans and ruined dreams (especially of our children)?

Perhaps later in the process, we’re asking instead:

How could I have done that?
Why did I behave so poorly?
How did I let that slip in front of the children?
Why did I fight so hard for or hang onto that (home, piece of furniture, or other physical object) for so long?

…or any number of other possible regrets.

This morning I met a strong, incredible and divorced woman for coffee. She asked me what happened, and I told her, “we just disagreed.” Yeah, it’s probably a cop-out. After awhile, the pain and resentment fade, the drama no longer seems to create a compelling narrative, and it seems I’m mostly looking forward.

When I’m feeling nostalgic, I just dig through my iTunes for this classic Dave Mason song:

So let’s leave it alone, ’cause we can’t see eye to eye…

There ain’t no good guys; there ain’t no bad guys;

There’s only you and me and we just disagree.

I’d like to think I’ve mostly moved on. Every so often there’s a flash of anger. I can hear it in my tone of voice when I’m cleaning the basement and marveling to anyone who will listen about something my ex hung on to, or when I come across another of his ineffective home repairs. Mostly, though, I am grateful for the lessons, grateful for our children, and very pleased with the woman emerging from the experience.

Do I have regrets? Sure. But most are fading regrets of misbehaviors that I’d like to think taught me a little something. There’s no one who got away. In this Zen moment and every other, everything is as it should be.

what’s your wacky divorce story?

I’ve heard some truly bizarre stuff in talking with friends and colleagues about divorce. Seems once you put it out there, everyone’s willing to share a story.

Take, for instance, a local friend: He’s not originally from these parts, and he was offered an opportunity to come and work here, in this lovely midwestern city, by a friend — his best friend. My friend bought a house, met a woman, got her pregnant, got married and is now divorced. My friend always did the bulk of the housework, brought in the bulk of income and did the lion’s share of parenting, as well. Since the split, he’s learned that his very best friend goes over to visit his ex, shovel the walk and babysit their child — without telling him!

Or another male friend: Just over two years ago, his wife’s sister was going through a divorce. At the time, he remarked to his wife how stressful and sad that must be, and asked: “I mean, if you were having feelings like that about me, we’d be talking about it, right?” Six months later, his wife’s brother was asked to move out / for a divorce. Six months after that, my friend was asked to move out and was on his way to a divorce. Six months after that, his ex-wife’s sister’s ex-husband and his ex-wife’s brother’s ex-wife are dating. Did you follow that? The in-law’s exes are dating. And then my friend’s ex-wife’s father made a feeble suicide attempt with a bottle of sleeping pills and a cry-for-help note. As I told my friend, “It’s not you. Clearly your ex and everyone in her family needs drama.”

When I was going through the worst of it, feeling emotionally unstable and questioning my sanity, stories like this kept me going. Like watching any of The Real Housewives franchises, it was incredibly grounding; I realized I wasn’t all that crazy.

So what’s the most bizarre divorce story you’ve heard? What crazy cues did you draw on to assure yourself of your sanity?

my next trip to Chicago (part 13)

About six months ago…

Given the confusion and misunderstandings of our last meeting, I wanted to connect with Chi-guy on the phone to ensure we were on the same page with expectations before I saw him in person again. After all, I’d spent our last conversation trying to convince him to go to bed with me. Surely he had no idea I’d changed my mind.

We set a date for Saturday night. He was to call me after his daughter went to sleep. He didn’t.

So I sent a text the next day: “Dude, you are too flaky to be my lover. Take that off the table. Be friends / hang out?”

Later he replied. “I dunno. I might be too flaky for that.”

“I hope not. I’d love to see you when I’m in town.”

“Meant to text earlier that I was kidding. I’d love to hang out.”

And so we made plans to see one another, but I didn’t find a great opening to let him know that I didn’t want to sleep with him.

Again, I was there to work, so Chi-guy popped by around lunchtime to see me. He had been downtown at the mediator’s, trying to unravel his marriage. We went up to my hotel room, so that I could grab a jacket and he immediately sat on the bed as we talked. He vented about his ex and the process, and confessed that he’d grown his new goatee because his ex hated it.

As I went in to the bathroom to apply ointment to the cold sore that had recently emerged on my lip, he grabbed a pen and note pad next to the bed and scrawled something. I saw him shove it under a pillow. “That’s for later,” he said.

We headed out in search of a coffee shop and, as we walked, touching playfully along the way, I shared how I’d felt about turning 40.

“Mine wasn’t that great, either,” he confessed. And then he told me he’d celebrated in Paris (of course) and was, at that time, beginning to realize that his wife didn’t seem to like him very much anymore.

We ordered our frothy four-dollar specialty drinks and, as we waited, Chi-guy leaned in and kissed me. This time it was me who leaned away.

“Aren’t you afraid of contracting my leprosy?” I asked.

He shook his head. He stirred his froth, and offered me a lick from his stir stick. As we sat down to chat, he continued to flirt and touch me playfully. I wondered whether it was the “Next time, more touch!” directive I’d written in his birthday card or that I’d told him he couldn’t be my lover. Whatever the case, I enjoyed the attention.

Too soon, he had to leave to pick up his daughter and I went back to my work. “You’re an angel,” he murmured in my ear, as he hugged me good-bye. We planned to meet for coffee again the next morning.

Suzanne was on site again. “OMG, he is so friggin’ handsome!” she exclaimed after Chi-guy left. Suzanne had been there at our reunion, a few months before. I was compelled to bring her up-to-date on all that had — or, rather, had not — transpired since.

The next morning, I texted him my flight time. It was earlier than I’d previously thought. “No time. You’ll have to catch a cab to the airport,” he texted back. And so we missed again…

No matter, I had another trip in just a few days.

reflections on the fortieth birthday

About six months ago…

I’ve already written a bit about how this milestone birthday hit me — it is, after all, included in the title of this blog.

I am a Libra, in love with being in love, quick to fall. You’d think I’d know better by this time in life, yet there I was, falling again for the distant and unavailable man in Chicago, falling faster and harder than any rational, reasoning soul ought. It was as though everything out of his mouth was customized especially for a sucker like me!

Meanwhile, as my birthday approached, I was despairing my not having yet attained the stature or status in life that I would have like to have claimed for myself. The successful career and marriage I’d imagined for myself had eluded me — in fact, I had just that week interviewed unsuccessfully for a new role. I had envisioned I’d be spending my upcoming big day in France or Italy with the love of my life. Or, barring that, a poet.

I experienced some incredibly ugly feelings, a range from self-doubting and unworthy to angry, hateful and outraged. The best I could describe it was “prickly,” like a porcupine, as though anyone who came too near was in danger of me flaring some fierce quills. While my friends insisted on taking me out to celebrate my birthday, I was in no mood to inflict my toxic self on anyone.

I remember thinking that, if Chi-guy had been feeling anything like this that last time I’d seen him, no wonder he didn’t want to get close to me! He had been pretty low at that time, and what I was experiencing gave me greater empathy and opened me to be more forgiving. We had continued to be in contact, loosely — in fact, he had just texted me a very hot photo! After the attention I had paid to his birthday, I wondered what he might do for mine.

On the big day, I dragged myself to the store for a new outfit — dress and heels — to wear out on the town. As I shopped, I started to get excited for my night out and spending time with my girlfriends. Yet my excitement was muted, like being as happy as you can be when you’re depressed, which isn’t particularly happy. Even as I got ready, went to dinner, bar hopped and danced with some amazing girlfriends, I was very down and emotional. Meanwhile, I put on a smiley face and plowed forth.

I’m not always sure whether I’ve found the right balance between “fake it ’till you make it” and being truly authentic. I genuinely believe that happiness and contentment can be a conscious choice. Sometimes this involves deciding to make the best of a situation, putting on a brave face and going out. But my gamely facade crumbled when one of my girlfriends told me how beautiful I looked, how much she admired me, and how fabulous and empowered a strong and sexy forty-year-old me seemed to be. (This was from a woman who has yet to hit this milestone birthday.) I immediately began to tear up, because I felt none of those things — and, by the way, thank you for pointing out this conflict between how I look and how I feel and, therefore, bringing up all my feelings of inadequacy.

Chi-guy, meanwhile, had not called, texted, emailed or sent a card. One girlfriend remarked, “Well, it’s better to know now.” (He left a message a couple of days later. Miss.)

While the intense malaise of my birthday lasted for about a week in total, I continued to feel low for several weeks — maybe months — following. That I was forty, in an unsatisfying job and without a loving partner in life were conditions that did not just evaporate, after all. And it was going to take some time and work to make the major transitions that would bring greater balance, peace and a feeling of forward progress.

the ex-husband-orcism

Last weekend, I invited girlfriends over to help me perform an exorcism: the exorcism of my ex husband’s belongings, photos, spirit and trappings of our married life from my boudoir and other areas of the house.

I had long been thinking about the idea of a cleansing or a celebration, and I never felt quite certain about what was appropriate or acceptable. My plan took on definition for two reasons:

A girlfriend gently told me that, while I clearly cherished my “mother” identity, it didn’t belong in my bedroom. Every other room in our home is family friendly; my room should be a personal sanctuary, a child-free zone. The family photos and stuffed animals would have to go.
With each passing week that I failed to tackle the project of cleaning and re-organizing the basement, I knew that I was experiencing some major resistance to dealing with it all. This was not going to be an easy job for me.

I was going to have to call in some reinforcements. And I would need them to be both relentless and brutally honest. After all, my closet (and outdated wardrobe) was part of my bedroom.

I invited a bunch of fun girls, knowing that only a handful could or would show up — this sort of thing is not for everyone. In one day, what we could accomplish would be limited, so I prioritized:

Rearrange and organize my bedroom and closet
Organize the children’s artwork (my sister, the art major, would be assigned ultimate judge of what I should keep, purging the rest)
Begin the impossible task of cleaning the basement

I set out a spread of beverages and snacks — brie, hummos and the like — and the girls arrived in early afternoon. We began by moving furniture and de-cluttering in my room. Down came the belly cast from my second pregnancy, out went the family photos, and in came the “welcome to my boudoir” energy. Any trinkets or baubles that I’d received as gifts from my ex went into the garbage. After the momentary feeling of guilt that this might be appreciated by someone else, I willingly, gladly let go.

With a team of supporters around me, it was easy to enjoy the feeling of liberation that letting go, releasing what no longer served me, could provide. Sure, there were a few moments of compromise, a few items that, for sentimental reasons, I was not ready to let go. But mostly, perhaps because I was being watched, it was easy to say no to that oh-so-tartish Roxy tee shirt, a circa 1988 Benetton and a Coogi sweater (yeah, embarrassing) that I’d purchased while vacationing in Sydney with a boyfriend in 1996. What was I thinking, holding onto these for so long? Even after the girls left, I purged books and jewelry with glee.

We never got as far as the basement, but I now feel unstuck, as though the task might be something I could accomplish, little by little, on my own. And I think the biggest surprise to me was how easy it actually was. I thought I might have some bigger moments of resistance or feeling really emotional, maybe even tears. But there were none. It was fun, even empowering!

When the children returned from their weekend with their father, they were energized and began cleaning their own room. We’re on nine large bags for charitable donations and counting.

Sage smudge yet to come.

on co-habiting with the opposite sex

A girlfriend called a few days ago and, per usual, began a rant about the B.S. she’d put up with in relationship with her child’s father. She rehashed a litany of complaints about his slovenliness, assuming I would jump on the ex-bashing bandwagon. I didn’t.

Instead, I told her that I didn’t share her experience: I LOVED sharing my home and my kitchen and my bed and the housework and all of it! Sure, the occasional coat of facial hair shavings on the bathroom sink was a mild irritant and I never liked the layout of the office, which was primarily his domain. But I loved co-creating our life together — from shopping together for what we each deemed necessary kitchen tools and negotiating menu plans — to our concern for one another when one of us wasn’t feeling well. I loved snuggling up against his warmth in bed. I loved the thought of our pant legs and shirt sleeves intertwined in the laundry.

It’s true that I carried most of the responsibility and had to make most of the decisions. The fact that I can clearly recall the time when my ex noticed that we were nearly out of t.p. and actually went to the store and purchased it speaks volumes. He was inflexible as it related to vacation destinations and ruled out countless menu options.

Living with someone can be a pain in the ass, and I am learning to enjoy the blessings of being the sole adult in my home. But I generally appreciated interdependence of partnership enough to overlook most of the little things. And I look forward to the day when I’m regularly waking up in the same bed as a man I love again!

the rest of the weekend (part 10)

About seven months ago…

After Friday’s disappointing ending, I continued to work through the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, Chi-guy brought his daughter to the public venue in which I was managing a promotion. I had gone back to my hotel room to change into warmer clothes for the evening. He texted me to see if I was around. I let him know that I was on my way back. When I got there, I had a few fires to put out, then finally checked back in with him. By that time, his over-tired child had caused him to leave. We had missed each other entirely.

“Will I see you again this weekend?” I texted. He didn’t respond.

I finally reached a girlfriend. “Tell me about it,” she said.

She listened and, at various points, said, “He said that?…But that’s good, right? That’s a good thing!” And then, “Clearly he knew what you thought was going to happen, and it was cowardly of him to do what he did. He’s hurting and sometimes men aren’t able to perform physically for a while after divorce, so it may be that he didn’t want to let you down. You can’t make assumptions or judgements right now. Will you see him again? Can you tell him that you’re confused and ask him about it?”

I would absolutely ask him about it; we had been candid enough with one another for that.

I didn’t hear from Chi-guy for the rest of the weekend. More than once, while back in my hotel room, I wept. This was about more to me than this particular guy. His polite brush-off of my advances had merely triggered all the pain, insecurity and baggage about rejection, being unwanted and unattractive that had built up in the last months of my marriage. He told me he found me attractive; he told me he wasn’t rejecting me; he told me he liked me. Despite all that, these ugly feelings poured out and into the open. Why? Because actions speak louder than words, and I had all-too-easily leapt to some unhealthy conclusions about what his actions meant.

Monday was Chi-guy’s birthday. I posted a greeting on his Facebook wall. I spent my morning on an architectural boat tour of the city, wishing that Chi-guy and I were enjoying it together. My longing, I have to admit, had more to do with commiseration or sympathy — misery loves company, after all — than with any desire for relationship.

When my cab pulled up to my home that afternoon, my son crawled into my lap before I’d even gotten out, as I was paying the driver. I immediately felt more grounded. Of course, the birthday gift, Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon, that I had intended to hand-deliver to Chi-guy had arrived at my home. I unpacked my bags and focused on my children for the afternoon.

But I had also been thinking about this mess with Chi-guy. We had spent a really nice day together on Friday, and I was carrying around a lot of hurt based on a misunderstanding. I decided to set my own pain and baggage aside. It was his birthday and only a complete jerk would not call to wish him a happy one.

As my children and I drove to a late-day appointment, I dialed Chi-guy, fully anticipating that he would let my call go to voicemail. To my surprise, he answered.

“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked immediately.

“I’m better, more grounded, now that I’m home. I really can’t talk right now, but what I can say is that I needed you to be much more clear with me about where you were at.”

“That’s fair,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I was really confused, and I’m still confused and you pushed some buttons that brought up some baggage I need to deal with, and I’m hoping we can talk about it later.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

What guy ever says he’d “like” to talk about my feelings and confusion and some awkwardness that transpired?! This was certainly not what I’d expected to hear. I let him know that his gift had arrived and that I would send it.

Later, Chi-guy texted me: “Sorry about the BS this weekend. You’re a good woman and you deserve better.”

More…

alone in my room (part 9)

About seven months ago…

Chi-guy had just left me at the front door of my hotel…

As if in a fog, I found my way to the elevator and pushed a button. The very first coherent thought in my head was, “I must have spent four or five hours on grooming — and for nothing!” It was true: my hair, brows, toenails, legs and bikini area were groomed to perfection in anticipation of this very night.

Wow! I had not seen that coming! We had been flirty and suggestive for about a month now. How had I so completely misread this situation? Clearly we were not vibrating on the same level!*

Back in my room, I plopped onto the bed and turned on the television. Tension pumped through every cell of my body. I had been so ready for…for…for, I don’t know, something more. Honestly, I would have been happy to hang out and talk more, to lie near each other fully clothed, to simply make out, to hold each other and cry…anything.

My mobile buzzed with a new text message. For an instant, I hoped that he had changed his mind and was rounding the block to park.

“Got a parking ticket while saying good night,” it read.

“Bummer,” I responded.

We texted about the pathetic movie selection on cable and he made reference to the statistic about how long on average a porn movie is watched on pay-per-view in hotel rooms. I think I made one last-ditch attempt to express what I was thinking: that two people in very similar circumstances, neither in a position to think of entering a relationship, might be uniquely available to provide comfort and touch in a way that could be healing, nurturing and fulfilling for both.

I washed my face and undressed. My body would not relax, settle down or allow me to sleep.

How did I get here? To this place where I had hoped and anticipated so much and was now feeling so incredibly rejected, unwanted and desperately alone? I mean, this was a guy that I liked well enough to contemplate putting his junk in my mouth! And I kind of thought he was into me, too.

It was too late to call any of my girlfriends.

“Really need to talk. Are you available?” I texted Max, thinking that, far left of here, there was a chance he’d still be awake. But there was no answer.

After tossing and turning for another hour or so and sobbing uncontrollably for a bit, I turned on the light and picked up a pen and notebook. I wrote some of what you’ve read over the past few entries, as well as these thoughts:

I completely respect that he must honor where his head and heart are at right now.
Does he not get that having this conversation has already changed everything? That our friendship can never be the same?
I get that flirting, like talking smack, is a bit of a game and liberties are taken. However, when our flirting became more directional or explicit, I was genuine in letting him know that I’m available. And I feel misled.
This whole thing about “liking me” is weird: we live in different cities and each have children that will keep us there and we’re both in the process of ending relationships, so there is no potential for anything real…nothing to ruin or jeopardize. Where does he think this might go?
p.s. it is now 3:17am and I haven’t slept a wink.

I set my pen and notebook down, turned off the lamp and continued to toss and turn until I had no choice but to get up and begin my day.

More…

*reference to the Law of Attraction, which states that like attracts like.

how my night with Chi-guy really ended (part 8)

About seven months ago…

After dinner, we both got up and went to the restroom before going out to the car. While our conversation had been easy, for the most part — imagine spending an entire day with someone you barely know and never feeling awkward or running out of things to talk about and allowing silence to be comfortable — there was something more. My mind and my body and my heart were all engaged, as though every cell in my body was at attention. Against all expectations and odds, despite his hang-dog expression and hunched posture, I was feeling alive in a way that I hadn’t felt in a very long time in the presence of this man.

I carefully checked myself in the mirror, re-applied lip gloss and emerged to find Chi-guy waiting for me. He seemed to be a bit reserved; perhaps his impeccable manners, respect for me or broken-hearted insecurity were getting in the way of what could happen…I felt compelled to take action to let him know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was prepared to follow through on every flirtatious text, email or phone conversation we’d shared. I leaned toward him and gently kissed his lips.

He recoiled, seemingly taken aback.

“That was nice,” I said awkwardly, trying to recover.

“What was nice?” he asked, confused.

“Dinner was nice. I really enjoyed it.”

And we proceeded to the car. I tried to regain the lightness we had enjoyed earlier and mentioned the possibility of one of those rooftop bars he had mentioned or the condo he had recently moved into. He was noncommittal.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before he began haltingly, “You know how we’ve been flirting…”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m interested in you.”

“The thing is, I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I said, excited to think we might be on the same page after all.

“But aren’t you afraid things are going to change?” he asked.

My mind began to cloud with confusion and my thoughts and words and what he was saying all jumbled together. I don’t think I ever managed to express that things had already changed, simply by his having said that.

I foolishly recounted the tale of my first post-marriage experience, in an effort to illustrate that we could be adults, both wounded but meeting on common ground, and that we could share something neither meaningless nor too meaningful…

We were now across the street from my hotel. We sat in the car for a few minutes talking, both of us inarticulately fumbling for a way to adequately express what we were thinking and feeling or the points we were trying to make.

“But what about next time you’re in town?” he asked. “What happens then?”

“We do it again!” I exclaimed, smiling broadly at the thought.

My points:

We liked each other — and it seemed we had for some time.
We weren’t in high school; being 40-something and divorced had bought us some hard-earned freedoms, namely not having to play “hard-to-get” games. After all, we’d both been married and had children — we no longer had virginity nor innocence to protect.
Neither of us was in a place to consider getting into a relationship. We could both be mature enough to be friends and lovers without jeopardizing the friendship.
We had a window of opportunity in which neither of us was in a relationship, and I would be traveling to Chicago twice more in the next several weeks. We could view these circumstances as a gift.

His points:

He was reading “The Road Less Traveled” and trying to do the right thing or be a better person or something — my mind could just not absorb the meaning of this at that moment.
He was still technically married and had never been unfaithful to his wife.
He’d met a woman recently who, when he explained his current life situation, had given him her number and said, “Call me when your divorce is final.” He found this refreshingly mature.* (What did that say about what he was thinking of me at that very moment?)
He told me the story about another woman — part of a married couple he knew — who had kissed him at a party. When he pushed her away she said, “I’m afraid I’m losing my moral compass.” He didn’t want to feel that way.
He told me he was “not really very big.” What?! Did he really just say that?! As if I could possibly have cared about his size! I am not the woman who believes bigger is always better, and I believed that this man was more than capable of satisfying me.
He told me that he was not a terribly strong-willed man and suggested that, if I were really determined, he might be swayed. But I had already put my cards on the table; I would not further embarrass myself by pleading or groveling. I had no interest in going to bed with a man who needed to be talked into it.

We were at an impasse. Chi-guy got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, opened my door and held out his hand. He led me across the street to my hotel, said, “There’s not much to recommend me right now,” and told me about the first time we’d met: “When I first saw you, I thought you were the most vibrantly sexy woman I’d ever seen.”

At this, my bullshit detector was going off wildly, because a) Eva Mendes exists and b) well, what more do I need to say?

He went on to tell me how surprised he’d been when I’d stepped away from that cocktail table and he could see for the first time that I was pregnant, and how he’d nursed a crush on me for some time. I listened, acknowledging neither what I’d thought upon our first meeting nor that I’d seen his jaw drop nor known of his crush. Within a few moments, he hugged me, planted a chaste kiss on my cheek and bid me goodnight.

Dumbfounded, I pushed my way through the revolving door back into my hotel.

More…

*With little introspection, I can easily concede that this is the mature and proper perspective to have, particularly if one is single and has not been through the long, painful, lonely and arduous task of dissolving one’s primary relationship. For those of us who have, we know that, oftentimes, a marriage is well and truly over long before the final paperwork is signed.